


III. Spring

by lockedin221b



Series: Iacta Alea: Cast the Die [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Injury, Lord John fic, M/M, Major Character Injury, Parents & Children, Post Reichenbach, Serious Injuries, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just shy of nineteen, Hamish struggles to take his aging, infirm father's place as head of the Watson Estate. He finds an unusual friendship when he meets one of Sherlock's childhood friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	III. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> **NB: This does not take place in the 21st century. This does not take place in the UK, or any real country that we know. It’s “realistic” but, ultimately, an entirely different universe from our own.**
> 
>  
> 
> Just, holy wow. OKAY ENJOY, AND READ THE END FOR NOTES!

> If there comes a little thaw,  
>  Still the air is chill and raw,  
>  Here and there a patch of snow,  
>  Dirtier than the ground below,  
>  Dribbles down a marshy flood;  
>  Ankle-deep you stick in mud  
>  In the meadows while you sing,  
>  "This is Spring."
>
>> -Christopher Pearce Cranch

It was early April and the mornings, while no longer frigid, were still cool. Hamish left his light riding jacket unbuttoned and pulled on his leather gloves. Wiggins met him at the back door. Like most of the servants who had been with the family for a long time, Wiggins seemed to have aged ten years in the last three. They would have to retire him soon, just like they had Mrs. Hudson two years ago. Finding his replacement was not a task Hamish was looking forward to.

“Have some tea ready for Mycroft, and let him into the parlour when he arrives.”

“Of course, sir.” Like his father, Hamish was not keen on being called ‘master.’ Nearing his nineteenth birthday, he was still getting used to ‘sir.’ “And how long until he can expect you?” Hamish just smiled wryly and stepped out into the brisk air.

Aristotle had already been fed and brushed. Hamish saddled and bridled the horse himself. They walked slowly down the hill and trotted past the pond. Once they cleared the narrow strip of trees behind the pond, they broke into a canter. The fields of the estate were expansive, at one point intended for farmland before the Watsons bought it up. Now Hamish was having it transformed, surrounding it with a fence and having stables and lean-tos built, as well as a larger arena than the one he grew up using. In under a month they would be able to bring in the mares Hamish had handpicked himself and already bred. He didn’t have confidence in his own ingenuity when it came to invention, like his father and grandfather had, but he’d be damned if he would let the estate fall to ruin. So he had turned to one of his passions: horsemanship. He spent the last year doing the necessary research and financial scavenging before making his purchases and beginning construction. It was only a matter of weeks now.

Hamish slowed Aristotle as they approached the stock pond. It was only about half full, but the water had kept since their last couple rains. He caught sight of movement in the mud and brought Aristotle to a halt. He dismounted and crouched by the edge of the pond by the large tree they had transplanted there. He scooped up the turtle and turned it so he was looking at its head.

“Long time no see,” he said quietly. It wriggled sluggishly in his hands. “Alright, alright.” He set it back in the mud and it continued on its way to the water. Hamish rubbed the mud from his gloves onto the grass and mounted once more. They finished circling the stock pond and trotted off to the far reaches of the field. The fence here had been in place since autumn, and they’d already had to make a few repairs from winter. Hamish checked the posts with a careful eye. Finding no faults, they turned about and started towards home. Hamish bent over in the saddle and rested his cheek against Aristotle’s mane. The horse kept walking, reins loose about its neck. Hamish often wished Aristotle hadn’t been gelded, though for a thirteen-year-old boy a gelding had been ideal. He was perfect, in Hamish’s mind, and it would have been nice to further the legacy.

Hamish sat up again when they reached the strip of trees. The path had been there when he started his project, but he had cleared and widened it for the horses and better light. He craned his neck back and closed his eyes. He would have to rework his morning routine when the mares came, at least until they were used to him and Aristotle prancing about their home. Aristotle, he had decided, would still spend most of his time up at the house with the two other geldings they used for the coach.

The figure by the barn did not surprise Hamish. Mycroft usually waited for him there. Why he still came so blasted early on these visits used to baffle Hamish, until he realised making such gestures was how Mycroft cared. Ridiculous, but Hamish tried to go along with it peacefully. He trotted by Mycroft without so much as a glance, though.

He took more than a necessary amount of time rubbing down Aristotle. He was excessively thorough, and Aristotle seemed to enjoy the extra attention. When he had no more excuses to delay the impending conversation, Hamish closed Aristotle in the old arena. He watched for a moment as his horse sniffed out a good patch to graze.

Mycroft was patient as ever, smiling placidly as Hamish approached. Hamish gave him a curt nod. “Good morning, Uncle.” Once, Mycroft had made the mistake of too casually asking Hamish when he had started using the term. It was just before Hamish’s seventeenth birthday, before they were all too comfortable with one another and had fallen into a patter between adults, rather than between a man and a boy. Mycroft hadn’t expected a real answer, probably just a shrug. Instead, Hamish had looked up and met his eye severely. Without the slightest hesitation, he said he had started using it when Mycroft had started acting like one. What was left unsaid was that this had started about two months after his brother had died, when he seemed to finally accept that Sherlock Holmes had been as much a father figure to Hamish as John Watson.

“Have a nice ride?” Mycroft said as he followed Hamish into the house.

“Very nice.” Hamish kicked off his boots and slipped on a pair of soft, clean indoor shoes. He tugged off his gloves and jacket and left them on a shelf for the servants before continuing through to the corridor and then the parlour. The tea waiting for them was still hot. No doubt Wiggins had waited until Hamish had returned to serve it. They sat before the unlit fireplace and Hamish poured.

“Your project going well then?”

“Yes. The mares should be here within the month.” It went like that for a few minutes, polite questions and other unnecessary comments about how well Hamish seemed to be doing, or how the gardens looked, or something equally meaningless. Finally Mycroft set down his empty cup, and Hamish knew it was coming.

“How’s your father?”

Hamish put down his and folded his hands in his lap. “Well enough. Better now that the weather is warming.”

“That’s good to hear.” Then there followed some more pointless questions and comments, and eventually Mycroft would leave. This time, however, he had another point to make. “The Spring Regale is coming up.”

Hamish bit the inside of his lip. “Mycroft-”

“The last few years have been excusable, if the last one only barely.”

“Mycroft-”

“It’s expected, Hamish. Showing this kind of disrespect by refusing attendance four years in a row could cause the Watson family to lose its lordship.”

Hamish laughed sharply. “We’re not an old-blooded family like yours, Mycroft. My great-grandfather got his lordship in wartime, and my grandfather kept it in wartime. My father kept it through peacetime. If I lose it in wartime, so be it. We’ll survive just fine without Her Majesty’s patronage.”

Mycroft looked fairly stunned. Then his brow creased. “Who says it’s wartime?”

“I may not frequent the capitol, but that doesn’t mean I ignore what’s going on.” Hamish gestured widely. “You haven’t been the only one clamouring for my father to return to his trade.”

“Hamish-”

“Besides,” Hamish sighed. “My father can hardly walk on a good day in summer. What’s the point of going to some damn ball?”

Mycroft grimaced. “It’s about propriety, and you know that. As it were, I did not have your father in mind this year.”

Hamish gaped. “Me? Mycroft, I haven’t been to a dinner and dance since I was, what, eight?”

“Which is why I’m willing to hire a tutor for your benefit. You’re nearly nineteen, Hamish.” Mycroft rubbed his brow. “If your father has fallen to retirement, then it’s your duty to take his place at such events.”

“And if I don’t?” He knew the answer, and Mycroft didn’t grace him with voicing it. Hamish scowled. “I’ll consider it.”

“Please do. And send me word with your decision.” That was the end of the discussion. Hamish showed him to the door. As Mycroft pulled on his gloves, he looked Hamish up and down. “You remind me of him more and more each time I see you.” He smiled, barely, but it was an honest to goodness smile, and it nearly crushed Hamish to see it.

“See you next month, Uncle.” He waited until Mycroft’s coach was on its way off the estate before he closed the door.

Hamish climbed the stairs and looked over the wooden lift as he did. That was his one decent accomplishment when it came to the Watson business. He brushed by it on his way down the west wing. He ran his fingers along the door that had hardly been opened over the last two and a half years. For the first several months after Sherlock’s death, he would often find his father in that room, sitting quietly, clutching something to his chest. Hamish never saw what it was. His visits had stopped abruptly, and the only time it was opened was for a rare dusting by one of the maids. They had to do it when his father was asleep or downstairs; they had learnt the hard way that John would temporarily lose his mind and shout abuse at anyone he found in that room, even Hamish.

His father answered when Hamish knocked lightly at his door. He opened it and found his father perched on the edge of the bed buttoning up his shirt. “How’s Mycroft?” He smiled up at his son.

“As bothersome as ever.” Hamish collapsed into his father’s wheelchair by the bed. He unlocked the brake mechanism and nudged it back and forth with his heel.

“Good to know some things never changed.” Hamish nodded, staring at his shoe. “What’s on your mind then?”

Hamish huffed. “He wants me to attend that bloody Regale.”

“Ah, I see. I could go-”

“No.” Hamish shook his head. “You’ll just be miserable.”

“And you won’t be?” They exchanged a mutual smirk. “Well, your manners may be a bit rusty.”

“What manners? You raised a barbarian child!”

John chuckled. “I feared as much.”

“He says he’ll hire me a tutor.” Hamish groaned and threw his head back. “Can we just give up the title and be done with these stuffy idiots?”

“Do you want your horses?”

Hamish glared sideways at his father. “Point taken.”

John pulled on his waistcoat. “How’s the stock pond look?”

“Good.” He thought about mentioning the turtle, but decided against it. Even the good memories were a tenuous topic. “Tree seems to have transplanted well.” John cleared his throat, and Hamish rapped his knuckles on the wooden arm of the chair. “Well, I should probably go write Mycroft with my decision. Do you need any help this morning?”

“No, I think I feel alright today.”

Hamish locked the chair in place and left the room. He waited silently outside until he heard his father lower himself into the chair before he let go of the doorknob and went down to the study.

 

Mycroft’s tutor spent four days at the estate. The man drove Hamish up the wall several times a day, and often he would storm out of the parlour and go for a ride or disappear into his father’s old basement workshop. He might have minded less if the idiot treated him like a naive child instead of like a wild man. Hamish might not have the shining mannerisms of the more elite, but he was far from uneducated.

After lunch on the third day, John interrupted Hamish’s pacing up and down the study. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Hamish scowled. “That man’s insufferable.”

“I meant the Regale.”

Hamish halted and looked up at his father. John was sitting at his desk, the regular chair pushed off to make room for his wheelchair. He had been listening patiently to his son despite the paperwork sitting almost untouched in front of him. “No, no I’ll go. It’s just-”

John put up his hand. “Hamish, you’re a good son. A good man. But as a gentleman, you fall short.”

“What?” Hamish gaped at his father. “I’ve passed every one of that rotten man’s tests. How to eat, how to bow, how to bloody breathe!”

“The details, I’m sure, you’ve caught onto easily enough. But you’re missing the larger picture.”

“I thought these events were all about the minutiae of behaviour,” Hamish sneered. “Wouldn’t want to insult someone by blinking at them wrong.”

“The little things can be overlooked if you have enough charm. And you, my son, can be very charming when you want to be.” John raised his brow pointedly.

Hamish wanted to laugh, and he nearly did. “Charm?” He smiled incredulously at his father.

“Oh, the little things help of course.” John grinned back at him. “But a generous apology for a small mistake has prevented many a scandal.” His expression relaxed. “Look at yourself, how worked up you are. You’re not even at the Regale yet. The lot of them tend toward the imbecilic, you won’t hear me arguing against that, but unfortunately the occasional mingling is necessary.”

“How did you ever manage?”

“With a lot of complaining after the fact.” John chuckled.

Hamish smiled. “Might need to wear out your ears soon then.”

“It’s about time I took up that side of things.” John pointed to the door. “Now go charm that unpleasant man Mycroft’s stuck you with.”

Charm is exactly what he did for the next day and a half. After the tutor’s departure on the fifth day, Hamish collapsed into one of the study’s armchairs. John asked if he was ready for the main event the next day, and Hamish just groaned loudly in response. The next evening, after a late tea, Hamish presented himself to his father in the first suit he’d worn since he was a child.

“My little boy,” John said.

“Don’t start that,” Hamish sighed, but he smiled. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Well you look handsome. Come here.” John held out a small box.

“Father...” Hamish opened it to the sight of two sliver cufflinks in the shape of galloping stallions. “Thank you.” He replaced his plain ones and leaned over to hug his father. “Thank you for everything.”

“I’m proud of you.” John held his face and kissed the top of his head. “Try not to be too miserable tonight.”

“I’ll try. Don’t wait up.” Hamish held up a finger. “I mean it. I’ve told Belford to carry you to bed if he has to.”

“Shoo!” John chuckled and waved him out.

The carriage ride to the court was nearly an hour, and Hamish spent most of it watching the darkening scenery and worrying at his new cufflinks. Once they entered the capital, though, he was sufficiently distracted. They hadn’t been to the city since Sherlock’s funeral three years ago, and though the city hadn’t changed drastically, Hamish didn’t remember much of it from that time. He was newly awed by the buildings, the people, the sheer number and size of everything. 

Everything thinned out closer to the court, until buildings opened wholly to the palace grounds. A line of carriages circled around to the main entrance. Hamish felt his nerves growing and berated himself silently. There was nothing to get worked up about. This wasn’t some diplomatic affair. When it came down to it, it was just a dance. That’s all it was. A dance. With every elite individual in the land. He rubbed his brow and took a few steadying breaths.

A steward opened his door, and he was simply grateful his legs worked. Already he felt out of place, as those ahead of him were all with family or fiancés or escorts. Aside from the obvious children, the attendees seemed considerably older than himself. He took another deep breath and forced himself to keep walking.

When he was announced, part of him must have expected some sort of dramatic attention pointed at him. Maybe it was because of what Mycroft had to say about court, and the stories he’d heard from his father and Sherlock. A few faces glanced towards him, and then back to their conversations and drinks. Somehow, Hamish’s feet kept him moving forward.

He wasn’t exactly sure what to do from here. He thought about looking for Mycroft, to have some kind of objective in mind, but someone intercepted that plan.

“My goodness, Hamish Watson? How you’ve grown!”

Hamish recognized Stamford from his biannual visits to the estate, though they’d rarely interacted. He put on a smile and shook the balding man’s hand. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Good to see you, boy. Is your father here?”

“No, he wasn’t feeling quite up to it. He sends his regards, though.” He was wondering if his meagre practice at small talk was going to be up to snuff when he felt an arm slip through his and a slender hand grip his upper arm. He jumped and turned to see a woman smiling beside him. She was perhaps a few years younger than his father with dark brown hair twisted into something elaborate yet unadorned. She wore a startlingly slim dress of dark emerald. Her features were more than comparably beautiful.

“Michael, so sorry to interrupt,” she addressed Stamford. “Need to borrow young Hamish, though.”

“Of course, of course. Give your father my best, Hamish.”

Before Hamish could reply, the strange woman was leading him out of the main crowd. “Sweet man, but dreadfully dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Hamish stammered. “Do I know you?”

“No, not at all.” She brought them over to one of the cushioned benches in the open alcoves and released Hamish’s arm to sit. She patted the space beside her and he took it awkwardly. “My name’s Irene. I grew up with your father.”

“I think you’ve got me mistaken then, miss.” Hamish shook his head. “My father grew up out in the country. Doubt he knew anyone like you.”

“Forgive me,” Irene said with a gentle smile. “I wasn’t referring to Lord Watson.” It took Hamish a moment before his eyes widened. Irene laughed softly. “Sherlock and I were good friends when we were younger. Drove everyone else mad of course, especially Mycroft. Ah, speak of the devil.” Hamish followed her gaze to see Mycroft walking briskly toward them. “Lord Holmes, what brings you to our little corner of the room?”

Mycroft narrowed his gaze on Irene. “Miss Adler isn’t causing you any distress, Hamish, is she?”

“Honestly, Mycroft,” Irene said lightly. “You always think the worst of me.”

“With good reason,” Mycroft sniffed.

“I’m fine,” Hamish interrupted. “I’ll call for help if I need it, shall I?”

Mycroft shifted his glare to Hamish before turning and strutting away. Irene chuckled. “Oh, he would be proud of you for that. You sounded just like him.”

Hamish’s face warmed. “I’d be foolish not to ask, though. Why does he seem worried?”

Irene let out a drawn out, insincere sigh. “Mycroft Holmes believes I am a purveyor of fine goods and young men. Only one of those is true.” She winked at Hamish. “And, as I said, I have a history with the Holmes family. Though to be honest, I’m not very much liked at these gatherings by most people.”

“Why not? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all. I brought it up after all. I’m a woman who’s made her own way in the world. The last man I relied upon was my father, and the good man passed away several years ago. I don’t sit well in the stomach of tradition.” She motioned to the room at large.

“Neither does my father.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said wryly. “But I won’t be offended if you want to make a better impression and mingle elsewhere.”

“Aside from being at a complete loss, I’m certain I’d be bored to tears.” He smiled genially. “Why do you come here though?”

“To make a scene of course.” She glanced around the room. “Actually, I haven’t been to one of these in years.”

Hamish pulled back slightly and studied her for a moment. “You knew I’d be here, didn’t you?”

Irene smirked. “Sharp, aren’t you? I was rather hoping to run into you, yes.”

“Why?”

Her expression, while still a smile, turned inexplicably sad. “Because I miss him, Hamish. We didn’t talk particularly often in the last years, maybe a letter every two months, but I do miss him.” She reached up and ran a light finger through his hair. “And you remind me of him, so much.”

“He wasn’t even my real father,” Hamish said. His chest felt heavy at the words.

“Wasn’t he? He helped raise you, didn’t he? Looked after you? Took care of you when you were ill, punished you when you misbehaved, gave you gifts, taught you. Maybe it’s not his blood in your veins,” Irene laid her hand over Hamish’s, “but part of him is still in you. He certainly loved you as a son.”

Hamish pulled back his hand. “He told you about me?”

“Of course he did. Some of his letters would speak more about you than they would of John. Oh, he adored you, Hamish. He relished every moment he spent with you and your father. You two were the world to him. Oh dear.” She produced a white kerchief and pressed it into his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Hamish.”

Hamish pushed the cloth back at her and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “No, you didn’t.” He felt shaken and took a sharp breath. “Only no one’s- Well, people don’t usually talk about him that way. About us. Not even Mycroft, and he’s the most decent about it. I’m sorry. You probably think I’m just a stupid boy.” He tried to laugh it off, but his eyes kept blurring.

“Not at all, Hamish. You’re a bright young man. Don’t be ashamed that you’re not numb inside like some of these people. Unfortunately,” she muttered, “I do think they’re about to ring the bell for dinner.”

A steward appeared and did just that. Hamish collected himself and stood. He offered his arm to Irene and put on a smile. “Dinner, miss?” She took it and they fell in with the crowd. Hamish couldn’t have cared less about the odd glances sent their way through the rest of the evening.

 

Hamish received a note from Mycroft the next day. He was glad his father hadn’t come down yet because he didn’t feel like explaining why he chucked it across the office. Hamish hadn’t thought the man could be even more meddling than he already was.

_Hamish_

_I speak as your friend when I say that association with Miss Adler could be harmful to your reputation, which has only recently begun to form. Please act wisely._

_MH_

Hamish’s first reaction was to write a scathing reply. He got a sentence in before scratching it out. He sat back in the chair for a moment. When he leaned over the desk again, it was to write Irene with an invitation to see the estate. She came to call two days later.

Irene arrived dressed in clothing as culturally abhorrent as she had the previous evening. Today, however, she had simply donned a pair of men’s trousers to go with her plainly cut blouse. Hamish was hard put not to grin at Wiggins’ poorly concealed shock.

“Thank you, Wiggins,” he said pointedly. Wiggins shut his slightly agape mouth, bowed, and bustled off. “Apologies, Miss Adler. He’s usually far more polite than that.”

“It’s quite alright.” Irene greeted him with a kiss on his cheek. “And please, Irene.”

“Of course.”

“What is this marvellous contraption?” She strode over to the lift and circled it, her expression bright with intrigue. “Did your father invent this?”

“We both did.” Hamish ran a hand along the guardrail.

“Modesty doesn’t suit you, even when it’s sincere.” Hamish and Irene turned to see John wheeling his chair from the direction of his study. “This was entirely my brilliant son’s doing.”

Hamish reddened slightly. “Father...”

“I merely assisted in fine-tuning the mechanism. The idea is what counts.” He held his hand out to Irene. She handed it to him and he kissed it politely. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Adler. I can’t say my son has told me much about you, aside from your guidance at a very dull event he attended in my stead.”

“I assure you, he made it far more enjoyable for me as well. And please, call me Irene.”

“Only if you return the favour. I detest ‘lord’s and ‘sir’s.” He turned to Hamish. “Haven’t you ridden Aristotle today? I can hear him in my study.”

Hamish hung his head slightly. “Sorry, Father. Only a bit. I was going to show Irene the pasture. I didn’t want to tire him out.”

John chuckled. “The day you tire that horse out will be the day of miracles.” He and Irene exchanged a few more pleasantries before he returned to his study and Hamish led Irene out to the stables.

“Thank you,” Hamish said. “For not mentioning him.”

Irene grimaced. “I will abide by your request, Hamish, but I don’t agree with it. Talking about Sherlock might do him some good.”

“I honestly don’t know how it would affect him, but I fear the worst. I can’t bear to hope for anything.”

“And what about you? You don’t mind?” Irene gave him an honest look of concern.

Hamish shook his head. “I’d like to know more about him. I never knew him really, not as a man. I knew him as, well, as a father.” He looked back at the house. “I see John Watson as a father first and foremost, but I’ve also seen him as a person now. I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“On the contrary, you make excellent sense. Now, I’m going to venture a guess and say this very excited thoroughbred is Aristotle.” She held out a hand to the prancing horse. He sniffed her hand briefly before looking right back at Hamish.

“You know your horses.” Hamish rubbed his neck and he snorted. “This is Aris alright. Being noisy today?” He tapped his knuckles lightly on Aristotle’s stripe, and the horse just nosed into his chest.

Irene rode one of the other geldings and Hamish showed her to the lake and out into the enclosed field. He guiltily enjoyed the chance to talk about his project with someone new, and frequently looked at Irene to assure himself she wasn’t tired of his blathering on. If she was, she was a very good actress about the whole thing. She listened attentively and even asked a few questions. Back at the house, Belford had lunch ready for them. There the conversation turned over to John’s inventions. John repeatedly tried to turn it back to Hamish, but Irene surprised both men with countless questions about many of John’s older achievements, ones that had gone into public use years ago. Most of them were agricultural or medical, but a few had to do with ships

Whether it was the company or the talk, Hamish savoured the liveliness in his father. It left him drained, however, and after lunch he excused himself to go lay down. Hamish and Irene retired to the parlour.

“I don’t believe I even knew that much about my father’s work,” Hamish chuckled.

“I was one of the first public investors for that steering mechanism of his.”

“A good investment as a merchant then?”

“Well, if I hadn’t disgruntled my competitors already by being a woman, I certainly did after that.” She gave him a cheeky smile, and then nodded toward the doorway. “He seems well.”

“There are good days and bad days, for his mind and his body. Winter is worst for both.” Hamish flicked a piece of lint from his knee. “I’d like to ask you about something. It’s a name that’s troubled me for the past three years.”

Irene folded her hands in her lap. “I will answer if I am able and at liberty to.”

“In his letters, did Sherlock ever mention a man named Richard Brook?” He looked up to see Irene tense. Hamish grimaced. “I take it he did then.”

“Richard Brook,” Irene said slowly, distantly. She was lost for a moment. When she came back, her full response was baffling. “Richard Brook doesn’t exist.”

“What? I saw him for myself, Irene. Albeit briefly, but I-”

“The man you must have seen was using a false name. Let me explain.” Hamish, tight-jawed, nodded. “We came up with the name as children, a nonexistent boy we would blame for broken vases, loosed horses. Of course no one believed us, but it became an amusing game. ‘Did you see Rich on the roof today? Sent the nurse mad with fright.’ ‘Rich got into the kitchen again. Stole a loaf straight from the cooling rack.’ As I mentioned once before, we drove everyone quite mad with our antics. But even my father, when he came to chastise me, would toss out the name. ‘I suppose this was Rich Brook’s fault too, was it?’” A faint nostalgic smile crossed Irene’s expression, but it was short-lived. “Like all childhood things, it faded. The next I heard of Richard Brook was in one of Sherlock’s letters when he was serving. It took me a second read-through to realise he was referencing another person, one he’d already written to me about. It didn’t take long to understand why there was a sudden pseudonym; he didn’t chance the man’s security. Sherlock feared the man would serve a penalty if their superiors knew what was happening between them.” Irene’s face had twisted and darkened. 

Hamish ventured to speak cautiously, “I know men like Sherlock and my father aren’t looked upon keenly, but they wouldn’t have thrown them from the army for it. Especially not in the middle of a war.”

Irene shook her head, and a scathing tone entered her voice. “If only that was the reason for Sherlock’s secrecy. No, this man—I use the term loosely for the monster—he was clever. As clever as Sherlock. And Sherlock was so young, only a few years older than you are now, and it was only recently he had come to realise and accept his inclinations towards men. It had only been weeks since he had confided this in me.” Irene took a shuttering, steadying breath. “He took advantage of Sherlock, twisted that beautiful, brilliant mind. Sherlock was convinced he loved him. Maybe he did, in a horrible way. Nothing I said would convince him to distance himself from the man. More than once I nearly told Mycroft. He could have taken Sherlock out of there, before it was too late. And then it was too late, and the man was dead, and Sherlock was left so very broken. Mycroft was perplexed, until I finally broke down and told him. Oh, he was furious with me. But he was too worried about his brother.” She smiled at Hamish, humourless and painful. “Mycroft, maddening though he is, his heart... he tries. He just never learnt how.

“So he brought Sherlock home and did his best to heal this broken child of a man. He wouldn’t allow me in his home for the first two weeks, but when Sherlock seemed only to grow worse—he hardly ate or drank or slept—Mycroft relented. It was still some time before he showed any sign of improvement. That beautiful mind of his was so battered and bruised, but it very slowly healed. It would never be the same, there would always be a part of it forever fragile. But it sharpened again, grew bright again. And then he met John, and as the years went on I could relax. I worried less about him. He was so, so happy. His letters were so alive. And then the dead man came back.”

Hamish interrupted, “What was his name?”

Irene blinked and her eyes focused on Hamish again. “James. James Moriarty. Did he ever speak of him?”

“No, not that I remember. At least not to me.”

“Probably to save you from any distress. After all, James was meant to be dead. Burned in a fire. But then he was discovered, and he was brought to the capitol to be tried for his crimes. War crimes. He caused the death of enemy civilians, against law and direct orders. Everyone thought he had burned in the fire he had set.”

Hamish’s brow knitted as he mentally retraced three-year-old events. “Is that why Mycroft sent us on that holiday?”

Irene nodded. “He was afraid James would go looking for Sherlock, or worse: he feared Sherlock would come looking for James.”

“Why?” Hamish shook his head, fury bubbling inside him. “Why would Sherlock- It doesn’t make any sense. If he did all those horrible things? And he had us. Why would he-” His words fell away as Irene placed a hand over his white knuckles. He hadn’t noticed his fingers digging into the arm of the chair.

“He was broken. There would always be a piece of him that was broken. Don’t be angry with him. You have to remember, he did choose you and your father. Hold onto that.”

Hamish released the blameless upholstery and nodded. His throat felt tight and he wasn’t sure he was breathing properly. “I don’t know what happened,” he murmured. “They found Aris and Father in the cold that evening. No sign of Sherlock or Brook—James—and the next day, when he finally spoke, all he would say was Sherlock fell. Of course we went looking. We found James’ body, but that was it. There was a river, under the ground, where the waterfall ended. People looked for days, but there was nothing. No word from anyone. It was decided the current pulled him under somewhere. We couldn’t even bury him.” Irene gripped his hand and he shuddered.

 

A week passed, then two, and then a month had gone by since the regale. Irene visited twice more, once for Hamish’s nineteenth birthday, a quiet affair, and she and Hamish began a regular correspondence. She kept him up to date on the state of politics and important court gossip alike, told him of her business as a merchant. He commented on these and wrote, once they arrived, about the new horses. She insisted she had to visit, but was dealing with a large shipment of goods and it would have to be delayed. He told her there was no rush, they were still settling in, and they would be there for quite some time.

Even John had come down to see the horses, seated in a saddle with a special brace for his leg. It was only once, and it was more than Hamish could ever have asked for. Despite the hired hands, Hamish oversaw their care directly at least twice a day. John compared him to a new mother, and oddly enough that made Hamish smile.

In the middle of May, when the weather was warmer than cool and the evenings were growing pleasant, Hamish was working on accounts in the study when there was a crash in the front hall. He had heard the distant knock of the door, but had kept at the paperwork on the desk until the jarring noise shook him. He sprinted out of the room and down the corridor. Wiggins had dropped the tea tray he must have been bringing up to John, who was resting in his room. The old butler looked pale and wretched.

“Wiggins, what’s the matter?” Hamish saw the open door as he finished rounding the corner, and a ragged figure on the threshold. “Who are you?”

The mess of dark hair turned and Hamish’s body went rigid. For a moment his mind went blank, void of any thought. As his surroundings raced back to his perception, he lunged forward and struck the man in the jaw.

He wasn’t sure why that’s what he did. He should have shouted, cried, embraced him. Any number of things, but for a moment he was filled only with inexplicable rage. Now he was trembling, clutching the lapels of the rough and worn hand-me-down brown jacket, his forehead pressed against the shirt collar below. Somehow his voice surfaced. “Oh god, oh god. You’re real.”

Those long, familiar, half-forgotten arms tugged him close. Sherlock rested his brow on top of Hamish’s head. “I’m so sorry,” he said in a cracked voice. “I’m so, so sorry.”

After a long moment, and yet one Hamish could have easily prolonged, while they stood in a puddle of tea and broken cups, Hamish pulled back abruptly with a strangled cry, “Father!” There was no mistaking the hopeful glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes. Hamish gripped his hand like a child and led him racing up the stairs and down to his father’s bedroom.

“Hamish, wait.” Sherlock pulled back to stop him.

“What? Why? He-”

“Slowly,” Sherlock said. “Just, slowly.” He squeezed Hamish’s hand. He looked tired. Happy, relieved, excited even, but tired. And perhaps more than a little apprehensive.

Hamish tapped the door once before opening it, with Sherlock shadowed behind him. His father was asleep. He left Sherlock in the doorway and went to the bed. He rested a hand on John’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Father, wake up.” He was crying at this point, with a foolish grin on his face, but John must have only noticed the tears.

He grabbed Hamish’s arm. “Are you alright? What’s happened?”

“He’s alive.” Hamish buried his face into John’s his good shoulder. “He’s alive, he’s alive.”

“What are you talking about?” But Sherlock must have stepped into the room then, because John’s voice broke and trailed off. “Dear god. Hamish-” Hamish nodded against his shirt. John bolted upright, and Sherlock collapsed beside the bed. He found John’s hand and gripped it in his, pressing his lips and forehead against it. And suddenly there they were again, the three of them, for a moment as if nothing had happened. 

 

Two days went by before they found out what had transpired since John last saw Sherlock. At first it simply didn’t matter how Sherlock was alive. He was back, he was there with them again, sleeping at John’s side and riding out with Hamish in the early morning. It was almost disturbing how quickly they fell into a kind of normalcy again.

But finally Hamish asked him as they rode back to the house on the third morning. Sherlock quiet response was, “I should tell you both together.”

So they ate breakfast, the three of them together, and went to the study and instructed Wiggins not to the disturb them. Hamish sat in his father’s old chair, Sherlock in his own, and John beside him, their hands locked together on the arm of John’s wheelchair.

A family found him far off from the waterfall, nearly dead and without his memory. When he recovered, at least in body if not in mind, they let him stay, and he worked alongside them on their meagre farm. Every few months he offered to leave, but they asked him where he would go and when he couldn’t answer, he stayed. He lived with them until two weeks ago when his memory returned.

“It was one of their little girls. She’s ten now. Fell off the horse and broke her arm.” He looked across the small space to Hamish. “I left the next day.”

John squeezed his hand. “You walked here?”

“As fast as I could,” Sherlock murmured. “I have to know, though.” His voice grew hollow. “James-”

“Dead,” Hamish answered abruptly. “They buried him.” He watched achingly as Sherlock relaxed in the chair. But that was when Hamish remembered Irene, and Mycroft, and the people who still thought Sherlock was dead. “Sherlock,” he said slowly. “Your brother.”

“I suppose I should probably write him.” He tried to smile through his guilt.

“I’ll do it.” Hamish rose and headed for the desk.

Sherlock let go of John’s hand and reached out to grab Hamish’s sleeve. “You don’t have to. It’s not your job.”

“I don’t mind.” Hamish pulled the hand loose from his sleeve and placed it on top of his father’s. He smiled at them both and went to the desk. They left him to write the letter, and likely to spend time alone with each other. Hamish had taken as much of Sherlock’s company as his father had, but it was time for Hamish to give them space again.

For several minutes, Hamish’s pen hovered over the parchment. At last he wrote identical letters to Mycroft and Irene.

_There is neither an elegant nor soft way to put down in words what I have to tell you, so I shall say it plainly: Sherlock is alive and has returned to us. He turned up at our door three days ago. He has only recently recovered from loss of memory, but that is the reason he has taken three years to come back to us._

_Do not fear for my sanity or my sobriety. My hand is as steady as circumstances allow, my mind sound, though I am shaken with relief and joy beyond words. Please come, whether convenient or inconvenient, to see the proof in the man himself. I have no doubt, no matter the past, that he will welcome the sight of you._

_Yours,_

_Hamish Watson_

He read them over multiple times before sealing them. He found Wiggins and passed them into his care. He slipped off to the stables, bridled Aristotle and mounted him bareback, and rode down to the mares’ stock pond. Hamish removed the bridle and let Aristotle loose to play with the mares, those who would tolerate the energetic gelding. He hung the bridle on a low branch and sat with his back to the trunk. He shivered and began to cry. He wept from fear as much as joy. He couldn’t seem to keep from asking himself if this was a dream, and what if it was, and please god he never wanted to wake.

 

Mycroft showed up in the middle of the night. Hamish was the first to the door, wrapped in his dressing gown. Mycroft looked stricken and held Hamish’s letter crumpled in his white fingers. He tried to speak, but despite working his jaw he couldn’t find his voice. Luckily, Sherlock had been close behind Hamish in coming down. For a frozen moment he and his brother stared at one another. Then Mycroft stomped past Hamish and gathered his thin younger brother in his arms in an embrace Hamish never would have believed had he not witnessed it himself. Sherlock looked just as shocked and patted his brother’s back awkwardly.

When Mycroft pulled away, he gripped Sherlock’s shoulders. “Moriarty, he’s-”

“I know,” Sherlock said with a shaky breath. He met Hamish’s eye over Mycroft’s shoulder. “I know.”

The brothers stayed up and talked through the night, though Hamish himself retired after telling his father who had come at such an hour. Mycroft was leaving when Hamish came down for his ride, the sky only just past grey. The two men were already bickering. About nothing in particular from what Hamish could hear, but bickering nevertheless. Mycroft gripped Sherlock’s arm at the door, and a silent moment passed between them. Hamish looked on somewhat shamelessly from the hall before going out to Aristotle.

Irene had taken Mycroft’s seat in the parlour by the time Hamish had stabled Aristotle again. Her face was red, but she was smiling and laughing, and Sherlock was sitting beside her. “She got to you too?” Sherlock teased when Hamish walked in. But behind the jest there was gratitude, a silent thanks that Hamish had thought to contact Irene as well as Mycroft. Hamish just smiled and went upstairs to wash and change.

After he was dressed, he went down to his father’s- his fathers’ room. John was sitting up in bed, though still in his nightshirt. Hamish sat on the edge of the mattress and John took his hand. “Am I dreaming?”

“Either you are, or I am, or else this is all very real.” They smiled at one another like boys.

“Is Mycroft still here?”

“No, he’s talking to Irene now.”

John raised a brow. “Irene?”

Hamish fumbled and looked down. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, I was just afraid it would hurt you. Irene and Sherlock are childhood friends. They wrote to one another often, so she knew about us.”

“I see,” John said quietly.

“You’re not upset with me, are you?” Hamish looked hesitantly up at his father.

“Of course not!” John kissed his brow. “Your heart’s too good for this world, Hamish.” He patted his son’s hand. “Now out you go. I’ll be down shortly.”

 

A few days later, Mycroft wrote to Sherlock with an invitation, something about seeing the old house. Sherlock was practically giggling over the absurdity of the letter, but there was no doubt he also found it endearing. “Savour it while I can,” Sherlock told Hamish and John in the carriage. “In a week he’ll be back to his surly old self.”

“A chance to see your nieces at least,” John said.

“I forgot Mycroft has children,” Hamish mused, staring out the carriage window. Everything still felt surreal to him.

“My brother doesn’t quite seem the fatherly type, does he?” Sherlock smiled. “Though in his defence, it’s not his fault I never was able to see the girls.” Hamish looked over at him. “As much as Mycroft wasn’t keen about my relationships, Rachael is the one who was appalled at the thought of me even being around them. I haven’t seen them in about ten years.” Sherlock settled back into the seat. “I look forward to seeing them more than that damn house.”

Hamish looked out the window again, afraid he would somehow let on what he now knew about Sherlock’s past. As the countryside passed in the fullness of spring, Hamish could only imagine a younger version of the man across from him, curled in a bed in a dark room where only nightmares of a demon in the form of a man kept him company. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

The Holmes’ house was large and luxurious and old. It had belonged to the family for more generations than Sherlock cared to remember, and sat with a not-so-distant view of the palace. Sherlock had just helped John down into his chair when a girl of about fourteen or so burst forth from the front door. She ran towards them as a gray-haired woman stood shouting in the doorway for her to slow down, it wasn’t proper. The girl gave no mind to her mother and Sherlock caught her up in his arms despite her age.

“Therese! Is that really you? Little Tessie, all grown up?”

“Uncle Sherly!” the girl squealed. Hamish and John stifled their grins and laughter, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at them both. When he put Therese down, she latched onto her uncle’s arm and dragged him along to the house. By then her mother had vanished from the entrance. In her place was a girl closer to Hamish’s age, perhaps sixteen or seventeen.

“Goodness, Marilyn?” Sherlock raised a brow. “Too old to give me a hug then? I suppose you don’t let people call you Molly anymore either.” Marilyn wiped her eyes and broke into a grin. She flung her arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed his cheek.

Sherlock introduced everyone and they went inside, Marilyn with her arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s. “Father had to attend to some business, but he’ll be back for lunch. Auntie’s here as well, though.”

“Your mother must be ecstatic,” Sherlock muttered. His niece let out a wonderful laugh and dragged him into the parlour. Hamish pushed his father’s chair in after them.

On one of the couches, dressed for once in what was fairly socially acceptable dress, was Irene. John voiced the connection first, “Auntie?”

Sherlock smiled coyly over his shoulder. “Didn’t I mention Irene’s sister was Mycroft’s wife?”

“You didn’t even say she had a sister,” Hamish huffed. “Nor did you,” he said, looking at Irene. She just matched Sherlock’s grin and patted the seat beside her.

“It’s a shame we’re both such horrible influences on our nieces,” Irene said as Therese skipped forward and sat beside her aunt. Irene combed her fingers through the girl’s hair.

“Oh yes, just awful,” Marilyn sighed. She looked up at her uncle. “Last year Tessie and I finally convinced Mother to let Aunt Irene visit regularly.”

“We threatened to run away and live with her,” Therese giggled.

“I must admit,” Irene said, putting on airs, “I’m flattered.”

Sherlock took up a seat on one of the other couches, with Marilyn next to him. “You probably put the idea in their heads.”

Irene put a hand to her chest. “Such harsh accusations! Hamish, why don’t you have a seat? No need to stand there looking so lost.” Hamish sat in a chair near Sherlock, and John wheeled up beside him.

Sherlock mused, “And what did your grandmother have to say about your little blackmail scheme?” There was a sudden silence and tension in the room, and Hamish felt he was intruding on something private just by being there. Sherlock’s expression dropped into something almost unreadable. “I see. When?”

Marilyn leaned her head on his shoulder. “A couple months after we thought you were.” Sherlock petted her hair.

After an uncomfortable moment, Irene stood up. “Hamish, come help me see what’s taking the tea so long.” He jumped up a little too fast and followed Irene out of the room. “You looked like you were about to make a run for it.”

“I just feel so out of place.”

“Don’t.” Irene put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re family here. Never you mind what my sister thinks,” she interrupted before Hamish could counter her. “Mycroft has accepted you, hasn’t he? This is the Holmes’ house, not the Adlers’.” She put her arm around Hamish’s shoulders and led him down the corridor. Their footsteps were muted on the long carpet stretching the length of the hall.

“When Sherlock said grandmother, did he mean his mother?”

Irene nodded. “His father had already passed away by the time everything with James had happened, but his mother learnt about it. And then of course John. She was a sour old woman, though. She cared more about the family name than she did about her family. Thank goodness Mycroft grew out her influence. But I think she was heartbroken in the end. I’d like to believe she was.”

Hamish bit his lip and thought for second. “That would have been around the time Mycroft started acting, well, decently towards us. I thought it was just because of Sherlock.”

“He didn’t really talk about his family?” Irene frowned.

“Not to me. Maybe to Father. As I’ve said, I only knew him through a boy’s eyes. As another father.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t make sense to worry you.”

They returned a few minutes later with a maid and tea in tow. Marilyn piped up as Hamish sat down, “Auntie told us you raise horses, Hamish?”

“I’ve only just started,” Hamish replied humbly with a side-glance at Irene. She was pouring tea with a faint smile.

“He’s selected some beautiful mares,” John said. “You are, of course, welcome to visit. I’m sure Hamish would be more than happy to show you around.”

Hamish nodded silently and took the cup Irene passed to him. Marilyn sighed, “If only Mother would allow me. I’m sure she would spend an hour lecturing on how it wasn’t ‘proper.’” She scrunched up her nose in annoyance. Hamish couldn’t help but smile.

“I might be able to convince her of some arrangement,” Irene said. “Especially if I chaperone.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Wouldn’t that make it worse?”

They chatted for a while, and the girls would often ask Hamish about horses. He surprised himself with how much knowledge he had accumulated over the last several months. By the time Mycroft arrived for their luncheon, Hamish was much more animated in his discussion.

Mycroft was his usual stiff self, which was more amusing than off-putting. His wife and Irene’s sister, Rachael, joined them on the patio for lunch at her husband’s request. The woman sat rigid and tight-lipped the entire meal, though, and excused herself before dessert was served.

Not long before they left for home, Hamish was returning from the lavatory when he heard raised voices coming from a door left slightly ajar. Mycroft’s study, if he remembered Therese’s after-lunch tour correctly. He was passing by as quickly and quietly as he could when he made out Rachael’s words.

“I will not have those perverts in my house!”

The last word was broken by the sound of skin against skin. Hamish blanched, though whether from the words or the strike he wasn’t sure. His head was in a daze, and he couldn’t seem to move his legs.

Mycroft’s voice was audible, dark, but not raised. “If you ever dare call my brother such a word again, you will quickly find yourself turned out of this house—my house.” There was half a beat before he added, “And it would be best if I did not hear you speak of Lord Watson that way either.” Hamish made it around the corner before Mycroft emerged from the study.

When they were getting ready to leave, Sherlock called Hamish around the back of the carriage to help secure John’s chair. The driver hurried to assist, but Sherlock waved him away. As they were tying it on, Sherlock said in a quiet voice, “You seem distracted. Is everything alright?”

Hamish nodded a bit dumbly and then forced a smile. “Been a strange few days, that’s all.”

“An understatement.” Sherlock tied the last knot and rested a hand on Hamish’s shoulder. “I often find myself forgetting you’re no longer a boy with a broken arm.”

“Ranting about Lucretius?” Hamish grinned a little more easily. Sherlock laughed, and the sound put Hamish at ease again.

Back by the door of the carriage, Sherlock hugged his nieces and Irene goodbye. He waved to Mycroft who stood in the doorway, and the elder Holmes waved back. “Visit if you can,” Sherlock said to the ladies. “We’d be happy to have you.”

“I’m sure I have some childhood favours I’ve yet to call in.” Irene winked.

They were only halfway through the city when Sherlock called for the driver to stop. He was out the door before John could ask what was wrong. Hamish and his father exchanged a look and Hamish leaned out after Sherlock. The man was standing in the street, looking around bewildered.

“Everything alright?” Hamish said, startling Sherlock from his thoughts. He turned and frowned, and climbed back into the carriage after Hamish.

John told the driver to carry on. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Something the matter?”

“I thought I saw...” Sherlock shook his head. “My mind is still playing tricks on me.” John squeezed his hand again, and the rest of the ride home was quiet.

 

It took less than a week for Irene to cajole Rachael into allowing her to take Marilyn for a visit to the Watson Estate. Therese, however, had to remain at home. They arrived just before lunch, and after they ate Irene volunteered Hamish to show her niece around the grounds.

“And I’d actually like to discuss some business with you, John, if you are feeling up to it.” Before Hamish could say a word, he was left alone with Marilyn, watching Sherlock and Irene walk away with his father.

“Hamish?”

Hamish started and looked around at Marilyn. “Yes?”

She smiled softly at him. “I’d love to see your horses, but if you mind it’s alright. I know Auntie can be a bit forward.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Hamish frowned slightly and looked at Marilyn’s dress. “I don’t think we have any side-saddles though.”

“Not to worry,” Marilyn said cheerily. She lifted her skirts halfway to her knee to reveal the bottom of a pair of trousers. “Auntie brought them over when she came to fetch me.” She let go of the fabric and reached back to undo a tie, releasing her skirts. “Made a fuss about how my dress was too grand for going out to the countryside, and hurried me off to change with these tucked away.” She folded them in her arms and wrinkled her nose with a smile. “Auntie really is such a bad influence.”

Hamish smirked. “An influence maybe, but I don’t know if she’s a bad one.” Marilyn giggled, and they put her skirts in the parlour before heading out to the stables.

Marilyn cooed over Aristotle continuously. She asked Hamish question after question, hardly any repeated from the other day. She asked about horses in general, Aristotle, and each of the mares. She listened intently to everything he had to say.

At one point, as they were finishing their circle around the mares’ pasture, Hamish commented, “You’re really interested in horses, aren’t you?”

“I’m curious about everything,” Marilyn said with a light shrug. “Mother and Father think it’s an awful trait. Especially Mother. She blames Auntie. She told me so many stories growing up, of all the places she’d visited on business and all the things she’s seen. And Mother’s not very fond of horses, a bit afraid of them actually. I only learnt to ride because of Auntie, and Father thought it was a good idea. What about you?”

Hamish glanced down at the worn leather between his gloved fingers. “Your uncle taught me actually. My father couldn’t because of his leg. I asked him about it once, when I was four or five. He said, ‘When you’re a bit older.’ My nurse told me not to ask him again. Of course I didn’t understand why then. But then Sherlock showed up.” He felt himself smiling at the memory of his first riding lesson, atop the older of the carriage horses long since gone. He’d been a tall, sturdy thing with long, slow strides. He remembered looking up from the horse’s neck and seeing his father watching him from his study window. John had worn the biggest smile Hamish had ever seen, a smile that became a common sight over the years Sherlock was with them. A smile that had disappeared, that he was waiting to see again. No matter how happy they were to have Sherlock back, alive, there was still something missing in his father’s smiles.

“Might I ask you something? It’s a bit personal.” Marilyn was twisting her own reins in her hands. He hesitated, but gave her a nod. “The way your father is, and Uncle—it doesn’t bother me, really—but what about your mother?” Her gaze dropped as soon as the words were out.

“She died when I was three. I don’t remember her much, just a few images. Like paintings in my mind really. Father said I had nightmares a lot when I was little, but I don’t remember those either.” He chewed the inside of his lip. “I told Sherlock once that if I could have two fathers, instead of a father and a dead mother, he’d be my other father.”

“Auntie says he is.” When Hamish only blinked in surprise at her, she started apologising. “I’m too forward, I didn’t mean to be. Another bad trait I suppose.”

“No, it’s fine. You just... You’re not very like your father. I imagine not much like your mother either.” Hamish grimaced.

“Mother, no. Tessie and I certainly aren’t like that. I think that’s why she’s so sad all the time.”

“Sad?”

Marilyn nodded slowly. “She seems angry, but I think she’s just sad. She just doesn’t want anyone to know it.” She picked at the fingertips of her gloves. “And Father’s not as bad as people seem to think he is. At least as a father, he’s really wonderful. He’s just not very warm with other people.”

Hamish thought back to the other day and what he overheard, and his stomach churned to think how Marilyn would react if she knew what had passed. But maybe it had been one incident. Maybe Mycroft had already apologised to his wife. Hamish looked over to Marilyn, but she was peering ahead of them to the house. He followed her gaze and spotted a silhouette moving along the study window, on the outside.

“Do you know who that is?”

“Might be one of the servants,” Hamish murmured. He tapped his heel against Aristotle and rode ahead of Marilyn. When he was close enough that he was sure it was no one he knew, he called out to them. The man twisted around and Hamish jerked Aristotle to the side as soon as he saw the rifle in his hands. “Go back!” he shouted at Marilyn. The gun fired and Aristotle started under him, but kept his feet grounded. Marilyn was already turning her mount and racing back to the line of trees.

As soon as he was sure Marilyn was going to be out of range and safe, Hamish’s only thought was to stay a moving target. He circled the house, keeping the gunman in his periphery, racing Aristotle to the other side of the house. The gun went off once more, but Aristotle kept moving. Then the house was blocking his view. He tried to shout for anyone in the house, but his lungs burned and his heels were slipping from the stirrups and he had to focus on riding because his arm was going numb and his vision was beginning to blur.

He was jolted back to awareness when he collided with the gravelled walk in front of the house. Aristotle whinnied and stopped several lunges ahead of him, dancing in place with his nostrils flared. Only when the shock of the fall brought him around did Hamish notice a sharp, searing, spreading pain in upper arm and cried out. He clutched it and felt wetness soak through his glove almost instantly.

Already there was noise coming from the house. There were two more gunshots, too close together to be from the same gun. Hamish tried scrambling to his feet, called to Aristotle, but the horse was too jumpy to pay him any heed. He heard his name being shouted, and Marilyn’s, and managed to call back. His voice felt like hot pinpricks in his own throat.

Hamish twisted around to face the door when he heard first Irene cry his name, and then Sherlock. His father shouted after them, “Oh god. Sherlock, tell me he’s-”

“Shot,” Sherlock called back. He crouched over Hamish. “The same bloody arm,” he snarled. “We need to get you inside and stop this bleeding.”

“Marilyn,” Hamish gasped, clutching Sherlock’s jacket with a blood-soaked glove.

“Where is she?” Irene kneeled beside Sherlock.

“Trees,” Hamish panted. His vision was going again. “Told her. To run.”

“I’ll go get her,” Irene said. “I’m going to borrow Aris, alright?” The attempted smile looked ugly on her horror-stricken face.

“Go,” Sherlock urged her as he gathered Hamish in his arms.

“Lot. Heavier. This time.” Hamish’s vision swirled.

“Not at all,” Sherlock grunted as he brought him into the house.

“Light as a. Feather.”

“Light as a feather,” Sherlock repeated. And then he began calling his name, over and over, from very far away.

 

He saw a figure unfurl itself and stand up. It approached him, but he couldn’t make out his face. He tried to speak, and the image dissolved.

 

The voices were as hazy as his vision when Hamish came to. He could just make out Irene and Sherlock speaking in soft voices. “You recognise it?” Irene said.

“I never saw it, but the powder marks it made and the smell are identical.”

“Three years, Sherlock...”

“I know, but if James were to get anyone to help him, Moran would have been easy to persuade.”

“He blamed you?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. The man was known for holding a grudge, even before he was arrested and became a fugitive. He just had the rank and smile to get away with it for a while.” There was a pause. “This is unique, though. I’ll ask John to take a look at it. He’d recognise whether or not it was special made.”

“You’re a fool, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask the poor man to look at the thing that nearly killed his- Hamish, you’re awake!”

By then his vision had cleared enough to make out that he was on one of the couches in the parlour, Irene and Sherlock across the room, and the rifle in Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock put it aside and crossed over to him. He felt his brow with the back of his hand. “How do you feel?”

“Ouch,” Hamish said and managed a twisted grin.

“You lost a lot of blood, so just rest for now.”

“I don’t intend to go anywhere, don’t worry.” He frowned. “Where’s Father? And Marilyn? Was she alright?”

“Absolutely terrified,” Irene said and sat in a chair beside him. “But safe and sound. She’s back home by now.”

Sherlock leaned against the arm of the couch where Hamish was laid out and brushed away Hamish’s sweaty bangs. “I nearly had to drag your father upstairs,” he said, “before he passed out in his chair. I should probably tell him you’re awake.”

“I’ll go,” Irene offered. Sherlock nodded and she disappeared through the door, closing it behind her.

“What happened?”

Sherlock took up Irene’s chair and leaned his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingertips under his chin. “Someone who wasn’t keen to discover I was still alive.”

“I heard you say a name. Moran? Something to do with James?”

“Yes and no,” Sherlock mused and raised a brow. “How do you know about James anyway? I never spoke of him to you.”

Hamish was too tired to feel guilty. “Irene told me about him. I asked who Richard Brook was, from that day... Don’t be upset with her, though. I asked.”

“It’s alright.” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the closed door. “Your father won’t like me for telling you this, but the first night I came here-”

“You were his bodyguard, I know. I worked that much out a few years later.”

Sherlock smiled faintly. “Well, I ended up saving his life. A man, a colonel named Sebastian Moran, tried to poison him. At the time it was nothing personal-”

“Nothing personal?” Hamish balked.

“Politics, Hamish. Cruel, but there you have it. He managed to escape his imprisonment shortly after. Disappeared. My theory is that he and James crossed paths, or more likely James sought him out. Do you remember the gunshot that caused Aristotle to rear, and throw you?”

“You said they were hunters.”

“I thought they were. But during the two weeks I took to come back, I spent a lot of time thinking about that day. It was a shot from the same gun that sent me out of the house, which allowed James to come and invite John for a walk. I considered the coincidence, but that was the same gunshot I heard some hours ago.” Sherlock’s gaze unfocused for a moment, or rather focused elsewhere. “A very distinct sound. I’d heard many gunshots before, from all sorts of firearms, during my service. None quite like this.”

“I heard two. One right after the other. Was that-”

“He’s dead,” Sherlock said bluntly, grimacing, still half-lost in his mind.

Hamish moved on. “You think he made the gun himself then?”

Sherlock came back to Hamish and sat up a little. “Altered, most likely. Moran was a known marksman. It wouldn’t surprise me if he tinkered with his own weapons.”

Before Sherlock had finished, Hamish blurted, “I don’t think you should tell Father.”

“Why not?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

Hamish wriggled his good arm loose from where it was crushed between his body and the back of the couch. Sherlock laid his hand on top of it, and Hamish met his gaze. “He spent the last three years being haunted. There were nights he woke up shouting, louder than he ever had when he dreamed of my mother. Yes,” he answered Sherlock’s unspoken question, his mouth opening. “I knew about those nights. I knew they grew less after you came. But when you were gone, he woke convinced you were still here. Just down the hall. I saw him one of the first times it happened. I had gotten up to run to him, thought he might have hurt himself getting out of bed. But instead I saw him limping towards your room and throw the door open. Oh god, Sherlock,” Hamish choked. “The look on his face when he saw you weren’t there, when he remembered everything all over again.” Sherlock squeezed his wrist. “I couldn’t bear to look at him the next day.” He took a moment for his breathing to slow, and Sherlock waited patiently. “He doesn’t need more ghosts. Call it a madman, I don’t care. But please, Sherlock, don’t give him anymore ghosts.”

The door opened then, and before Sherlock took his hand away Hamish grabbed it. Sherlock looked at him and gave a small nod, mouthing his promise, before standing and pushing the chair out of the way. Irene wheeled John up to Hamish’s side. His father’s cheeks were wet but he was smiling. He grabbed the hand Sherlock had just let go of and kissed Hamish’s brow.

“No more horses for you,” he laughed, his throat dry.

“To be fair,” Sherlock mused, “it wasn’t the horse’s fault.”

John laughed again and pressed his forehead against Hamish’s. Hamish rubbed his shoulder. “I’m alright, Father. I’ve got the best surgeon in the land looking after me, don’t I?”

“The best surgeon would be nothing if his heart stopped beating,” John whispered and kissed him again.

“I’m alright,” Hamish said again. He stifled a sudden yawn. “Just tired it seems.”

John sat up, suddenly in his doctor front as he rambled, “I want you to drink some water, and then get some more sleep. I’ll wake you to change your bandages, and hopefully we can move you upstairs after-”

“John.” Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder and caught his eyes. “He’s alright, John.”

With those words, John broke down. Sherlock knelt beside him and gripped his hand with one of his and wiped John’s cheek with the other. Hamish reached across his chest to hold his father’s other hand. When his father look up, Hamish saw the smile on his face, the smile he had missed for the last three and a half years, and he began to cry as well, laughing hoarsely and gripping his Father’s hand.

Across the room, Irene slipped out unnoticed, closing the door to leave John Watson alone with his family.

> So then this soul is kept by all the body,  
>  Itself the body's guard, and source of weal:  
>  For they with common roots cleave each to each,  
>  Nor can be torn asunder without death.  
>  Not easy 'tis from lumps of frankincense  
>  To tear their fragrance forth, without its nature  
>  Perishing likewise: so, not easy 'tis  
>  From all the body nature of mind and soul  
>  To draw away, without the whole dissolved.  
>  With seeds so intertwined even from birth,  
>  They're dowered conjointly with a partner-life  
>  ...  
>  Not thus, I say, can the deserted frame  
>  Bear the dissevering of its joined soul,  
>  But, rent and ruined, moulders all away.  
>  ...  
>  So no dissevering can hap to them,  
>  Without their bane and ill. And thence mayst see  
>  That, as conjoined is their source of weal,  
>  Conjoined also must their nature be.
>
>> -Lucretius, _De Rerum Natura_  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> I used [this](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.02.0131%3Abook%3D3%3Acard%3D288) translation of sections from the third book of Lucretius' _De Rerum Natura_.
> 
> All the love and thanks and patience, especially to my BD5HR kiddos.
> 
> I'll admit I'm not 100% satisfied, but I really didn't know where else to go and it was just time for me to finish it.
> 
> I am TENTATIVELY considering a follow-up recounting some of the correspondence Irene and Sherlock shared.


End file.
